


Shake Me Down

by indecisive (darling_highness)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: I have No Excuse, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, The Winter Soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_highness/pseuds/indecisive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i was looking at zhanna's blog on tumblr and a certain piece of stucky fanart inspired me to write this quick oneshot.</p>
<p>this is the piece im talking about!!!! ( http://zhaana.tumblr.com/post/112289482495/au-in-which-steve-never-gets-the-serum-and-never )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shake Me Down

It had been nearly three years since The World Fair. Three years since a certain Sergeant James Barnes shipped out to England to join the rest of the able bodied men fighting the terror that was Adolf Hitler.

Steve was not amongst them.

Almost two years- a mere twenty three months- had passed since the day Steve received a condolence letter reporting the supposed death of Mr. James B. Barnes.

Not like Steve was keeping track.

He never moved away. Steve fought to keep that shit-hole of an apartment intact.

It was his home. It was _their_ home.

Bucky was brave, he was strong. Steve hoped that maybe someone had made a mistake- a cruel, dark mistake. He hoped, and hoped. And hoped. He hoped that when the war was over, Bucky would come home to him.

People knew the war was coming to an end. Nobody was exactly sure when, though.

But the electric tingle in the air made it feel like the end was coming soon. The Russian front was pushing further into German territory every day, liberating slaves and dismantling the armed power that was Hydra.

Steve grew weary.

Days seemed bleak, endless. Nights were no relief. Their bed felt empty without Bucky there to envelop Steve in his warmth. He missed Bucky's smell, the way his heart beat would lull him into a comfortable sleep. Steve wouldn't call sleep a comfort anymore. He dreamed of Bucky.

October came cold and wet to Brooklyn. Steve thought of the time he and Bucky would spend curled up by the furnace, Steve drawing, Bucky with his arms around his love, chin on his shoulder, watching. Sometimes Bucky couldn't watch. Only when he was the one being drawn.

Steve went days without thinking about Bucky sometimes. He was occupied with work and just surviving. But when he lay in bed awake at night, staring at the ceiling and listening to rain smatter the window above his head, guilt tugged at his insides for even forgetting Bucky for a second. They had been best friends since they were kids. Their love for one another never faded over the years, and Steve wouldn't dream of forgetting Bucky. His heart still ached. It was a dull ache, but it was there. Tears prickled in his eyes. So often had he brushed them away, telling himself Bucky wouldn't want him to cry. This time, he let them come. Hot streaks of the tears raced down his cheeks and a sob wracked his entire frame. He felt so frail, so empty without Bucky there. Steve's hands gripped at the steets where Bucky would have been. With another sob he pulled Bucky's pillow against his chest, pressing his face into it. It didn't smell like Bucky anymore.

For the longest time, Steve wouldn't dare touch Bucky's things. Everything had to be the way it was when Bucky came back.

The “when” that was so solid in Steve's head just a few months ago was nothing more than a flimsy “if” in his mind now. Steve ran his hands over the couple books Bucky kept in a shoe box in the closet. He ran his fingers along the fabric of Bucky's shirts.

They still smelled like him.

A fluttering sensation lit up Steve's chest, his fingers now closed around that black sweater Bucky had worn around often. It was thick and warm and it smelled like him. It smelled of peppermint and cheap shampoo, and Floris No. 89 that Steve had bought him for his birthday once, leaving a citrus and spicy wood scent in the material. Steve buried his face in the fabric and inhaled deeply. A flood of emotions and memories came back to Steve in that moment, and he sat in silence mourning his love.

For the next week, Steve passed through life as if he were in a dream. He didn't feel the pain anymore. He simply felt numb.

A particularly bad storm had hit Brooklyn one night, so Steve remained inside. He sat in the kitchen, cheek pressed to the cold table as he listened to the crackle of the radio and the wind whistling through the cracks in the window panes. It wasn't the freezinf air that ran Steve's blood cold then. There was a rattling at the door. Someone was shaking the handle, trying to get inside. Instinct told Steve to hide, but his heart told him to grab the knife on the counter he had been using to prepare dinner.

He listened to his heart.

When Steve had retrieved the knife and moved towards the front door, the rattling had ceased. He peered through the window. A large figure draped in black sat hunched against the front door. His leather clad hand grasped the handle, the other pressed into his side, his chest heaving with a great effort. If he had been wearing a lighter colour, Steve would have been able to see the thick blood slipping through his fingers. But it was dark outside and the black outfit made him look like a shadow. The shadow slumped down on the mat outside, his breathing shallow and laboured from what Steve could tell. Fear gripped him. What could he do? This man just tried breaking into his apartment, but he looked like he was dying. What was the proper etiquette for this? Maybe Steve would just check. See if he needed an ambulance. Steve placed the knife on the windowsill and cracked open the door. The assailant's weight was still pressed against the door, causing it to open wider than Steve had wanted. He gripped the wood of the door so tight his knuckles grew white. The man on the mat wore a mask covering the lower half of his face, and black smudges around his eyes shadowed them. They were closed. What was with this guy and black?

“Hey? Hey!” Steve called.

The man groaned, barely audible. It was more a pained breath than anything.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?”

No answer.

Steve sighed. He was going to have to touch this guy, make sure he was still alive. He could see the blood coming through m- were those metal fingers? His blood shone red on the grey concrete. Steve slid the door open further and the man fell completely onto his back, head inside the doorway. Searching for the edges of the mask, Steve worked to pull it off. It came away fairly easily, and when he saw the man's face, Steve's heart just about stopped.

There lay the man pronounced dead all those months ago. A living ghost. Steve was taken back, shocked. He looked so different than the Bucky he had bid farewell to all those years ago. But that's what war does. It takes you in, chews you up, and spits you out.

Steves hands were trembling. He gripped the front of Bucky's uniform, brow furrowed as he assessed the belts and buckles strapped over his muscular chest. He needed to get Bucky inside. That was no easy task considering Bucky was twice Steve in breadth and one and a half of him in height. The man was stacked like a brick house, no doubt. And he was just as hard to move. Steve tried tugging and pushing, even rolling him inside, but he settled with the slow work of pulling him with his hands tucked under Bucky's arms, digging his heels into the floor for leverage. It went like this until they got into the bedroom. He wasn't sure how he would get Bucky into the bed on his own, so he patted his face to try and rouse him. Bucky's face was pale and fatigued, but his irises still glistened blue when his eyes opened. He looked at Steve but did not see him, listened but did not hear when Steve spoke. His muscles tightened in an effort to help Steve place him in the bed. After a minute of struggling, Steve managed to roll the soldier into the nicely made space, straightening him out comfortably. He assessed Bucky for any wounds, only finding the cut on his side. It wasn't deep, but it was long and stretched the length from his hip to the base of his ribs. Steve rose to retrieve the first aid kit they kept so to clean the wound. It bled freely and Steve sighed, observing the mess it was making on the sheets. He went to work stopping the blood and covering the gash, clucking his tongue as he struggled with the thick fabric around it. He fiddled with Bucky's, erm, uniform with little success. He pressed cotton onto the wound and held it there himself since he couldn't wrap Bucky up like this. He would have to wait until he was awake.

Steve's eyes drifted to Bucky's sleeping face, and his heart lept. It was really him. The man he thought long dead was back in their bed, changed, but still very much himself by the looks of it. Other than the metal arm he now noticed. He would have to ask about it when he was awake. Steve sniffled as he stared at Bucky, biting back a confused sob.

Steve sat there for hours, changing Bucky's bandages and trying to remove that goddamn vest he was wearing. The dim light in the room was beat out by sunlight breaking through pale grey clouds, bringing with it a pink sunrise. Steve's head dipped as he dozed. Watching the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest soothed him. His eyelids became heavy and he had to force himself to stay awake.

A sudden shifting caught Steve's attention. Bucky's eyes fluttered open. Confusion and apprehension contorted his rugged features. He saw Steve and tensed, grabbing his slim arm with his metal hand as the flesh one drew a knife from a holster on his leg, pressing it to Steve's back. Steve drew his hands up to himself, releasing the gauze and staring at Bucky with horror stricken across his face.

“Who are you? What are you...” Bucky demanded. His eyes searched Steve up and down, hard and calculating.

His hand gripped Steve tightly and he didn't dare move; he could feel the metal through his shirt. “Bucky... It's me. It's Steve...”

A spark of recognition lit behind Bucky's eyes after a moment. “Steve...” he breathed. “Steve.” it was surer this time. Bucky looked dazed, eyebrows furrowed. “What... Why did I come here?” Bucky lowered the knife and his metal hand, having it come to rest on Steve's hip, gentle despite the cold digits. His other hand caressed Steve's lower back.

Steve placed his hands on Bucky, one on his chest and the other on his shoulder. “It's home, Buck,” he wavered. “You came back home.” A sob grew in Steve's voice and he buried his face against Bucky's neck, arms coming up to wrap around his broad shoulders.

Bucky dropped the dagger away from them and slid his arms around the small figure clinging to him for dear life. He held that warmth to his chest and said nothing, silenced by the memories trickling back to him.

Steve was sobbing now, speaking around each cry. “I missed you so much,” he gasped, trembling against Bucky's shoulder.

“'m sorry,” Bucky whispered. He held Steve tighter. “Sorry, Steve...” He tasted the name on his tongue. It was familiar, it carried good memories.

Steve shook his head. “Don't ever- God, don't you ever be, you big jerk.”

A few beats of silence pass and Bucky's voice cracks when he admits, “I missed you too...” Bucky presses his face to the nape of Steve's neck, getting a familiar whiff of shampoo. His head spun with the memories that were invading all he thought he knew.

“Don't ever leave me again, you hear? I can't lose you again,” he blubbered.

Bucky combed his fingers through the hair at the back of Steve's head in an attempt at soothing him. “Shh... I'm here, doll. 'm not going anywhere...” He said this to reassure himself as much as for Steve. He was home. The apartment didn't matter so much as who was in it. He was with Steve again. Steve was his home. The one he would always come back to. Always, without a doubt they now knew.

Steve sobbed with joy and concern and so many feelings he had no name for.


End file.
